


First Payment

by tenaya



Series: Be Careful What You Ask For [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e02 Ghosts, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenaya/pseuds/tenaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been too close and he felt something twist low in his gut at finding Finch and the girl helpless and cornered in the service corridor.  He knew then that he wanted so much more from Finch.  He wanted to know if his story about the Machine was really true because if it was, John was right next to the biggest secret on the planet.  He wanted to know all of Finch’s other secrets because if the Machine was the first of them he’d shared with John, imagine what else he was still hiding.  And now John knew he wanted Finch himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Payment

**Author's Note:**

> I've warned for rape for those with issues, but I feel the story really is more dub-con. Unbetaed.
> 
> It's probably best if you read the first story before this one.

 

John had to admit that on the surface, this new job was a good fit for him.  During the standoff beside the elevator when Stills had threatened to kill any and all of John’s family and friends, something clicked inside him, like a puzzle box springing open.  Stills was a cancer; he didn’t just kill for greed and power, he killed innocents and liked it.  Killing Stills was _right_.  John shot him, no kneecaps this time and it felt good.  In fact, as John took his next breath, he felt the earth become solid beneath his feet; he felt his connection to life run hot through his body with an exhilaration that made all the colors brighter, the smell of the gunpowder as sharp and acrid as it had been when he’d learned how to shoot as a boy.  This is what he needed to be doing.

He could have gotten rid of Stills’ body easily enough; he’d certainly had plenty practice while in the CIA.  Finch’s parameters had been simple: surveillance and to save the innocents in the equation – and to kill only to as a last resort to save lives, including his own.  Everything else John did was at his own discretion.  Getting Stills’ body into Fusco’s car at the police garage had been tricky but it was worth the trouble to be able to force Fusco to dispose of it, to feel the power of seizing an asset and molding them into the right tool. 

Playing the recording of Diane Hansen implicating herself in murder and corruption had been so sweet.  The Agency didn’t like flashy displays like that, preferring a bullet as a more permanent solution, but the look on her face made it worth the extra effort of getting the recording in place.  Plus Finch approved of throwing Hansen into the system and letting the law take care of her.  Finch hadn’t been happy about John acquiring guns so it felt expedient to meet him half way on other aspects of the job.

It hadn’t escaped John’s notice that Finch was being cagey as to where they met.  After Hansen’s arrest, they rendezvoused where they had first met by the bridge.  Finch had offered him the choice of a well-paid anonymity or to continue with a job that would, in all likelihood, end with John’s death.  The results of both options were the same for John.  He’d just come in from living the anonymous life and for him it meant he’d be alone with his regrets and guilt, their acid burning through him with only alcohol able to quiet the pain for a few hours.  If he disappeared again, he would find a train track or a tall bridge and end it all.

Killed in action, doing the only thing he knew how to do anymore, that was fine.  When he got too slow, too sloppy, his fate would catch up with him and he’d find the oblivion he sought.  A bullet would be his quick reward for this attempt at redemption.  It was the type of death he’d pick for himself if he had the choice, and while he didn’t deserve it, it was being given to him.

So, he had agreed to stay on and Finch had quickly left in his waiting town car.  He had gone back to the library to collate data and promised to call soon with the details of the new number. 

The number was fairly straight forward: a man cheating on his wife and not bothering to hide it very well, and the spurned wife arranging for his murder.  It was easily taken care of and left John some time to continue his investigation of Finch. 

Finch supposedly had constructed a computer of unimaginable power; something that John knew had been attempted before but had failed.  Could Finch be that brilliant at computer systems?  He hadn’t helped much on the Hansen case, but he might have been waiting to see what skills and techniques John brought to the party.  John decided to push Finch on that point and see what sort of skills the man would display if John told him he needed something for the numbers.

Finch had proved difficult to tail, but John had found an IFT employee ID passcard in his briefcase left in the town car.  Finch had arranged to meet him at a cemetery and a marina to share info about the next number, Theresa Whitaker.  John had finally managed to distract the driver and struck pay dirt with that passcard.   That night he had broken into IFT, gone through the Human Resource files and found Harold as a long term, low level software programmer.  Obviously a cover but it was a deep cover.  Finch had been hiding for here for seventeen years and was a pretty crafty at it.  John took great joy in confronting Harold in his cubicle the next day and seeing the genuine startlement on his face.  When he tried to visit Harold at IFT a second time and found Finch had abandoned the cover, he didn’t feel frustrated or annoyed. No, he felt a frisson jolt though his body at this unexpected challenge and the thrill of the chase.  Finch should know better than trigger the pursuit impulse in a predator… and maybe he did.  He was smart and he’d hired John knowing exactly what he was.  Why would a man with secrets invite a specialist in surveillance, pursuit and infiltration into their lives?  He said he knew John would try to uncover his secrets.  Either he thought his abilities at concealment were superior to John’s skills at ferreting out info or maybe he was enjoying the game as much as John was.

Saving Theresa had proved quite challenging and involved fist fights, gun battles and a final desperate race back to the hotel to save Finch and the girl from the bullets of a hit man. It had been too close and he felt something twist low in his gut at finding Finch and the girl helpless and cornered in the service corridor.  He knew then that he wanted so much more from Finch.  He wanted to know if his story about the Machine was really true because if it was, John was right next to the biggest secret on the planet.  He wanted to know all of Finch’s other secrets because if the Machine was the first of them he’d shared with John, imagine what else he was still hiding.  And now John knew he wanted Finch himself.  He wanted to know what he looked like beneath his clothes, hidden away more thoroughly than a Victorian maiden under those layers of expensive fabrics.  He wanted know how Finch would make love to someone, what would he say, where would he touch?  And he wanted to know what Finch would feel like, naked under crisp sheets when John finally won and sank into his warm body, what sounds he would make?  

 During the push to save Theresa, Finch had revealed he could hack into the records of any financial institution he desired, the need to save the girl more pressing than the need to hide his computer skills from John.   They had also worked around the clock.  So when they left the park after seeing Theresa safely into the care of Detective Carter, John was hopeful that Finch might be tired enough to make a mistake and head for home.  John doubled back and cautiously tracked Finch only to discover the man was returning to the library.   He added “Workaholic” to this list of what he knew about Finch. 

He lingered for a few hours, hoping Finch might still call it a night but was disappointed.  It was time for Plan B.  If he couldn’t ascertain where Finch’s home was so he could break in and uncover more of his secrets, John would fall back on the long plan and work at deepen their relationship.  It was time to press for his first payment.

Soundlessly, John crept into the library.  Finch wasn’t at this work station but John could hear him in the next room over.  He closed the distance until he was at the end of a row just behind Finch.  The man bent stiffly from the waist, tilting to one side as he carefully slipped a book into place on the lowest shelf.  Finch was shelving books?  Did he check them out to himself?  Okay, this was a bit mysterious.  John doubted this display of compulsive orderliness would be one of Finch’s secrets, but it did offer more insight into his personality.

Finch righted himself with a slight groan.  Hand to his lower back, he turned and limped away from John.  There was a large, low cabinet ahead, the kind that had been used for storing and laying out maps or newspapers.  Finch went right to it.  He placed his hands on the edge and leaned forward, like he had done with the railing at the marina.  Lower back injury, John decided.  Stretching like that would take some of the weight off the back and by straightening the spine, would release some of the tension in the muscles.  Finch stayed that way for a good few minutes before he moved on, back towards his desk.  John retraced his steps and waited at the end of the stack nearest the door that led to Finch’s office.  When Finch pulled even with him, he caught sight of John from the corner of his eye and flinched away, hands reflexively rising up protectively in front of him.

“Dear lord!”

“Finch.  Do we have a new number?”

Finch shot him a very annoyed look and limped past.  “No.  We do not.  I told you I would call when we did.”

John trailed after him.  “You heading home, then?”

“No.  I still have work to do.”

“Like reshelving books.”

Finch shot him a carefully blank look but said nothing.

John smiled to himself and shook his head.  Well, maybe there was something special about that book. He’d have to find it later and look it over.   As Finch took his chair and started typing, John walked past and peered into some boxes Finch had shoved against the wall behind him.

“Doing more research, Mr. Reese?” Finch swiveled his chair enough to watch him.

John picked up a bottle of Corn Husker’s lotion and raised his eyebrows.

Finch snorted and turned back to his keyboard.  “And from that will you deduce I’m originally from Iowa?  Perhaps raised on a farm?”

John took a step forward until he was well within Finch’s personal space.  The typing paused.  “I’ve heard it makes a great personal lubricant in a pinch.”

Finch swiveled back and stared up at him over the tops of his glasses.  “I had hoped that I had proven my sincerity to you and that you would no longer require… alternate forms of payment.”

John stared down at Finch.  “Are you reneging on our contract?”

Finch slowly turned forward and sat quietly.  He placed his hands in his lap. “No.”

John gripped the back of the chair and pulled on it, rolling Finch away from the table.  He leaned down until his lips were against Finch’s ear.  “It’s time for me to collect my first payment.”  He spun the chair slowly until Finch was facing him.  He reached down and started to loosen Finch’s tie. 

Finch met John’s gaze squarely as he reached up and began unbuttoning his own vest.  “What do you have in mind, Mr. Reese?”

John stepped back and admired his bravado.  He flicked his own shirt buttons open.  He had left his jacket with Theresa.   “Stand up.”  As Finch did, John walked forward, herding Finch backwards until he was leaning against the decorative book shelves behind him.  “Drop ‘em,” he ordered as he unbuckled his own belt and shoved his pants and briefs down to his knees.  Finch was a little slower and John finished unbuttoning the smaller man’s shirt while he tackled the pants.  He pushed Finch’s undershirt up to expose his chest and belly.  He had a moderate dusting of salt and pepper hair across his pecs, narrowing down into a treasure trail to his pubes.  John shook out a glop of the lotion, coating his own organ as he pulled at it.  A tingling sped down his legs and he felt his cock heat up and grow heavy. 

Finch kept his eyes locked onto John’s. 

“Don’cha want to see what you’re going to be dealing with?” John asked. 

“You, Mr. Reese.  I’m dealing with you.”  He kept his gaze steadily on John’s, even when John reached down and started to coat the lotion onto Finch’s cock.  The smaller man jerked a little at the touch and sucked in a sharp breath.  John could feel Finch’s cock swelling as he expertly handled it, adding more lotion as he went.  Apparently, Finch wasn’t seeking visual stimulation to be aroused; he was instead focusing on the person he was with.  Interesting.

John smiled and took a half step forward until his feet were alternating with Finch’s.  He pressed closer and trapped his cock against Finch’s belly.  He gave a little thrust, enjoying the slick glide against the warm skin.  He slid the lotion bottle onto the bookcase and slipped his hands up under Finch’s arms, burrowing beneath the undershirt for balance.  He could feel Finch’s erection against his hip and thrust again, making sure there was equal pressure against Finch’s cock. The warm slickness felt wonderfully messy.

Finch could no longer maintain eye contact, what with his stiff neck and John’s advantage in height.  He tentatively brought his hands up to John’s hips and when John thrust against him again, slipped them around his waist, gripping hard as he pulled John tighter.

“You liked that.” John bent his head until his cheek was resting on Finch’s temple.  John thrust again, setting up a rhythm.  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Finch,” he whispered, his breath hot in Finch’s ear.  He braced himself better and used his knees to get the best leverage.  The bookcase rattled in time to his soft grunts.   He pushed harder as he felt his orgasm build, felt Finch’s fingers dig into his skin then the burst of wet heat on his hip as Finch came.  His own orgasm hit just as Finch relaxed, his head droping onto John’s shoulder.

As he let go of Finch, the man bonelessly started to slip downwards.  “Hey!” John said.  He grabbed his waist and tried to control his descent. The pants around John’s ankles did not help but he finally got Finch laid out flat.  What the hell had happened?

He pressed his fingers against the side of Finch’s windpipe and felt his carotid pulse beating rapidly.  He took off his employer’s glasses, lifted his eyelids and checked his pupils and was relieved to find them equal.  Probably not a stroke then.  He lifted Finch’s hand and pinched the skin on the back of the hand, pulling upwards.  The skin stayed tented.  He probably fainted due to dehydration then.  It was never a good idea to have sex standing up if one was dehydrated.  

Deciding to give Finch time to recover on his own, John removed his knife from his leg sheath and with a few quick slices, cut off his own briefs.  He used the cloth to wipe Finch’s abdomen clean before he folded it in half and wiped himself off.  He stood, pulling up his trousers and closed the fastenings.  Knowing that Finch would not appreciate waking up in this state, he bent over and slid the man’s boxers and pants up.  He log rolled him to one side to hitch the garments up over his hip.  Finch’s head was at a stiff angle even though he was unconscious thus confirming the physical deficits were real.  Realizing he had a unique opportunity for further discovery, he lifted Finch’s clothing out of the way and examined his back.  There was a pair of surgical scars on the neck and lower back, well healed, at least a year old, and also a scattering of shrapnel scars.  He pulled the clothes back into place, rolled Finch to his other side and finished pulling the pants up, fastening them close.  John sat beside him then, pulling Finch’s legs onto his lap to help the blood flow go back to his head.  He slipped his hand under Finch’s pant leg and took hold of the boney ankle, letting his thumb stroke the calf as he waited. 

Looking about, he decided Finch needed supplies if he was going to work long hours here:  an electric kettle, bottled water, snacks…a small microwave maybe.  Definitely some towels, a few blankets and a space heater for winter.  Perhaps there was a couch somewhere else in the library he could move down here.  Or, he could bring in a bed.  Ambitious but it would come in handy.  A first aid kit would be a good idea, too.

Finch groaned, moved slightly then stilled.  After a few moments he said, “What are you doing, Mr. Reese?” 

“Waiting.”

“For?”

“For you to tell me if you have a medical condition that requires you to go to the doctor’s or if you’ve just been skipping meals.”

Finch stared at the ceiling.  “May I have my glasses back?”

“Yes.  When you tell me how much you drank today.”

Finch tried to lift his legs off of John, but John used his left forearm to keep the knees on his lap. 

“How long do you intend to keep me here?”

John shrugged.  “As long as it takes to get some answers from you.”

Finch huffed.  “Oh very well.  I ordered a light breakfast from room service at the hotel this morning. I had some tea, juice too.”

John waited.  “Anything else?”

“I was _busy._ Besides, I had no idea that I’d be involved in… in high school level sexual antics. ”

John nodded his head.  “Is there anything else going on that would cause you to faint?”

“I didn’t faint.  I passed out.”

John waited, still massaging the ankle.

“And no, nothing else that would cause this.  Please let me up.”

“Do you have diabetes?”

Finch pulled his shirt closed over his chest and started to refasten the buttons.  John continued with the ankle massage.

Finch sighed and gave up.  “No, I am not diabetic or even pre-diabetic.  Will you _please_ let me up, now?”

“You’re gonna have to take better care of yourself, Finch.  Drink frequently and eat snacks to keep your blood sugar up.  Running tech support by yourself is a marathon, not a sprint.  Besides, you never know when I might ‘pounce’ upon you again.”  He slid out from under Finch and was on his feet in one fluid move. 

Finch had barely sat up.  He spotted his glasses nearby and put them on, only to find John was holding his hands out to offer Finch an assist in standing.  Lips pressed together in annoyance, he grasped John’s hands and let John pull him smoothly to his feet.  John grabbed the chair and brought it up quickly behind the smaller man and pretty much forced him to sit down.  He wasn’t sure but he thought Finch paler than a few seconds ago.  “Stay.  I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Within fifteen minutes, he had bags full of Chinese food and bottles of water and fruit drinks.  He climbed the stairs two at a time and as he rounded the corner, he could see Finch still at his desk.  He had taken his glasses off and had the heel of his hands over his eyes, elbows on the desk.  John stopped a few feet away.  “Finch?”

The older man jumped slightly.  He sat back and put his glasses back on.  “Yes, Mr. Reese?”  He sounded quite tired.  Well, food and drink would put some color back in those wan cheeks. 

John realized that with Finch’s deficiencies, he probably wouldn’t run out for food and drink when he needed it so it would be up to John to make sure his employer had access to supplies here, where he needed them.  Finch had given John a purpose, a reason to keep on living; the least John could do was to see Finch was given physical sustenance.  He recognized the signs of a man dealing with guilt and regret.  Self-abuse by ignoring his body’s needs of nourishment and rest, by pushing himself past his limits—these things were used as punishment when one felt they didn’t deserve to be living.  Finch had lost someone and he felt responsible; that much was plain.

John put the bag with the Chinese food on the table behind the keyboards.  “I bought dinner.”

End


End file.
